


Willard's Rest, And All The Rest

by RudyRed34



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gen, One Shot, POV Third Person Limited, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 04:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17860211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RudyRed34/pseuds/RudyRed34
Summary: "He was pushing his luck already, coming to visit her; he knew that it was only a matter of time before the Pinkertons caught up with him and his crew, and detours like this only increased the odds. But he was tired - God almighty, he was tired all the time now, so tired it felt like his bones were turning to stone right inside him - and the memory of that soft bed with its crocheted coverlet beckoned him."Arthur visits the widow Balfour for the last time to check up on her; turns out she's just as concerned for his well-being as he is for hers, and she convinces him that he needs to rest, at least for a little while. Platonic cuddling and non-sexual intimacy ensues as Charlotte confesses the hardships of a widow and Arthur reflects on the decline of the Van der Linde Gang.





	Willard's Rest, And All The Rest

Mrs. Balfour was sitting on the front porch of her cabin at Willard’s Rest, reading a letter, when Arthur rode up. A smile of relief blossomed on her face as she recognized him, and she stood to greet him as he dismounted his tall palomino stallion, Coronado, and led him to the hitching post. “My, my! I was wondering when I was going to see you again.” Her smooth black hair shone in the early afternoon sun, and a smattering of freckles on her cheeks attested to the time she’d been spending outdoors; she was a far cry from the starving, haggard woman Arthur had first met.

The change was so dramatic that Arthur was momentarily at a loss for words. “You look… different,” he finally said.

“Well, the rigors of simplicity take their toll on a woman.”

Arthur cringed, scratching at his short beard in a nervous reflex.  _ Why you always gotta be such a damn fool?  _ he asked himself.  _ Old as you are and you still don’t know how to speak to a lady. _ “Oh, no, I didn’t mean - ”

“I know, I know.” Mrs. Balfour smiled, and the knot that had settled just beneath Arthur’s diaphragm loosened. “Things are going well. I couldn’t have done it without you.” She reached out with one hand to give Arthur’s arm a brief, light squeeze.

“I reckon you did all the hard work yourself.”

“Perhaps. But I would have been lost without your help. As Missus Ritchie says, ‘If you give a man a fish he is hungry again in an hour. If you teach him to catch a fish you do him a good turn.’”

“I can teach you how to fish, too - and Missus Ritchie, whoever she is.”

Mrs. Balfour laughed, and for once it wasn’t the nervous, self-deprecating chuckle that Arthur had heard when spending time with her before; it was light and relaxed - and contagious, but Arthur was cut short by another coughing fit. He resisted the urge to spit in Mrs. Balfour’s presence; a bitter taste, laced with iron, sat in the back of his throat. Mrs. Balfour furrowed her brow. “How are you holding up, Mister Morgan?” she asked, studying his drawn face.

Arthur waved off her concern; he hoped that his beard disguised the pallor that had started creeping into his complexion. “I’m still standing - which is an improvement on the last time you saw me.”

The attempt to deflect with humor failed; Mrs. Balfour frowned, and her dark eyes softened with sorrow. “I wish there were something more that I could do.”

“Ma’am, you’ve already done more than enough.” Arthur hoped that this time his words came off the way he intended them to - as true gratitude, and not annoyance.

Mrs. Balfour shook her head. Arthur couldn’t blame her for being skeptical, considering. But how could he explain that her mere living - her ability to persevere, to survive, all without losing her goodness - did more good for his heart and soul than any medicine? He’d never been as eloquent as Dutch.

But it seems Mrs. Balfour understood anyway. “Please, call me Charlotte,” she said, once again squeezing his arm affectionately.

Arthur chuckled and shook his head, partially out of relief and partially out of disbelief. “I suppose you can call me Arthur, then.” Out of politeness, he pretended that she hadn’t already done so in written correspondence.

“Arthur, would you come inside and rest a spell? You look… pardon the expression, but you look dead on your feet.”

“Huh. I suppose I am.” Arthur considered the offer. He was pushing his luck already, coming to visit her; he knew that it was only a matter of time before the Pinkertons caught up with him and his crew, and detours like this only increased the odds. But he was tired - God almighty, he was tired all the time now, so tired it felt like his bones were turning to stone right inside him - and the memory of that soft bed with its crocheted coverlet beckoned him. He looked up and gauged the orange light of the evening sun; there was no way he’d get back to Beaver Hollow before nightfall, and (if he were being more honest than he cared to be) he didn’t trust his fortitude to ride through the night. “If it’s not too much trouble…”

“If it were, I wouldn’t have offered.”

“Let me take care of Coronado, first.”

“I’ll help. I at least had a familiarity with horses even before you came along.”

Mrs. Balfour - Charlotte - followed Arthur off the porch and to his horse. Together, they removed Coronado’s tack, brushed him out, and hobbled him to ensure he wouldn’t wander off. He didn’t mind; the grazing here was good, and he was grateful to be rid of his bit. Arthur patted Coronado’s muscular haunch, the color of a Spanish doubloon, and turned to Charlotte. “All right, after you Missus - after you, Charlotte.”

Charlotte led him into her cabin, maneuvering him into one of the chairs at the wooden dining table; he leaned his rifle against the wall by the door before sitting. She bustled over to the pot that was simmering on the stovetop; removing the lid, she bent over and inhaled the thick steam that rose from the pot’s contents. “Oh yes, I’d say that’s about done.” She cast a proud smile towards Arthur. “Venison pot roast.”

“Smells delicious,” Arthur said. 

“It’s a far cry from stringy rabbit stew, that’s for sure.” Taking up a pair of knitted pot holders, Charlotte removed the pot from the heat and used a fork to break apart the meat, which was tender from hours of cooking. She spooned some into two bowls, along with some broth and root vegetables. Finally, she chopped up some sorrel she’d gathered earlier and sprinkled it over each bowl. “ _ Bon appétit _ \- ah, enjoy,” she said as she set one bowl in front of Arthur and settled in the chair across from him with her own bowl.

Arthur took up his spoon. The confident mix of savory and sour scents played around his head. He tried some. It was… good. Objectively. He could tell that the balance of flavors was just right. The carrots were soft and sweet; the venison practically melted in his mouth; the fresh sorrel provided a delightful, crunchy contrast. But it didn’t arouse his appetite, even though he hadn’t had more than a can of sweet corn that morning. He may as well have been chewing on buffalo grass. He knew that he should eat more, both for his own sake and for that of his host, but after a few more mouthfuls he couldn’t force himself any further. With a sigh, he set his spoon back down.

“It needs more salt, doesn’t it?” Charlotte asked. “I’m sorry - I haven’t been to Annesburg in a while, so I was running low...”

The way that the corners of her mouth tugged downwards tore at Arthur’s heart. “No - no. It’s fine. It’s delicious,” he said. “I just… my appetite ain’t what it used to be. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet her concerned gaze; instead, he stared at the flakes of venison floating in his bowl. 

Charlotte’s chair scraped dully against the rug as she stood, and the floorboards rang as she rounded the table. “You have no need to apologize. You’re not well.” Arthur felt her hand rest on his shoulder, light as an angel. “Why don’t you lie down with me?”

Arthur’s breath quickened; his lungs burned. He had, of course, considered this situation. But he was so God-damned tired, and thinking about it was different than actually doing it, and what if he wasn’t able to live up to her expectations in his condition? Not to mention the risk of her getting sick too. He clapped his hand atop hers and gave it a squeeze that he hoped was interpreted as friendly and apologetic. God, his paws were so huge and rough compared to hers. “I’m not sure if I can...”

To his surprise, Charlotte chuckled. “Arthur, I’m a writer. Or I hope to be. I choose my words carefully. When I say lie down with me, I mean just that. Nothing more. I promise.”

This was... not a situation Arthur had considered. But now that the option was provided, he could think of nothing he wanted more. “Sure.”

Taking his hand in both of hers, Charlotte led Arthur into the bedroom. There was that lace coverlet; Arthur wondered if Charlotte had crocheted it herself. Releasing his hand, she went to the wardrobe and began removing her belt and blouse. “Do whatever you need to be comfortable,” she said.

Arthur shed his gun belt, coat, hat, and vest. He glanced over and saw that Charlotte was still struggling to unlace her corset, her elbows splayed out to either side like a trussed bird. “Would you like some help?”

Charlotte paused, considering. “Yes, please.”

He crossed the room and took the ends of the lacing from her. Her scent, salty and sweet all at once, filled his nostrils. Placing one hand on her waist for stability, he worked his fingers under the lacing that ran up her spine and pulled, one set of grommets at a time, until she sighed and slouched into his hand. 

“You’ve had some practice at that, Arthur,” Charlotte said as she unhooked the busk of her corset and tossed it aside. Now she wore nothing except her camisole and drawers, both delicate white cotton and trimmed with lace.

“I… well…”

“I’m just teasing. Take your boots off, please.”

He complied, followed by his overshirt and trousers. Down to just his union suit, he clambered into bed, where Charlotte was already waiting for him. She nestled herself against him, using his chest as a pillow, and pulled the coverlet up to their armpits. 

The warmth of Charlotte’s body against Arthur’s was electrifying; the weight of her leg resting atop his made his heart flutter, so much so that he found himself short of breath. He turned his head away from her and coughed, and kept coughing, and then coughed some more - the fit lasted embarrassingly long, and he felt her tense against him with worry as it went on and on. “I’m sorry,” he said when it was finally over.

“I told you - you have no need to apologize.” She caressed his chest and belly for a few moments as she listened to his labored breathing. “You poor thing.”

Arthur stared up at the rafters. “I don’t want your pity.”

“Then have my empathy. I... ” For once, Charlotte was at a loss for words, and she fell silent.

The pair lay unmoving for a time, watching the shadows creep across the walls. Arthur eventually placed his hand on Charlotte’s arm that was draped across his chest. When was the last time he was in this sort of situation? Sure, he’d visited the professional gals in Valentine, in Strawberry, but this was different. The closest equivalent he could think of was the times when Tilly was plagued with nightmares - they seemed to come and go, prompted by events so minor Arthur couldn’t make sense of them - and, waking up in the middle of the night, she would crawl into his bed for comfort. He’d hold her tight as she shook and cried, saying nothing except soft, wordless murmurs of comfort. But at those times he was the protector, the consoler; now he was… well, definitely not a protector.

“This is what I miss most about Cal,” Charlotte said after a few minutes of silence. “I know it sounds trivial, compared to everything else marriage affords. But… to simply be  _ close _ to someone. A person craves it.” There was a strange thickness to her voice; it wasn’t until she sniffed that Arthur realized she was holding back tears.

He stroked her hair, almost without thinking. “Used to be,” he began, then paused as he struggled to find the words to put to his thoughts. “Used to be, living with Dutch and Hosea and Missus Grimshaw and all them, I was never lonely. Hell, sometimes I’d go off for a little while just to be free of ‘em, so I could hear myself think. But now…” He sighed, shook his head, and shifted his arm slightly to better accommodate Charlotte’s weight. “It’s changed. Everything’s falling apart. Even when I’m surrounded by everyone, I feel alone.”

“You’re not alone now.”

Arthur squeezed Charlotte closer. Hell of a thing, he thought, that he used to crave solitude and now he was dying and he felt alone all the time and it absolutely terrified him. Even now, with Charlotte’s breath grazing his skin, he felt like a scrim separated them. It was thin enough that he could feel her warmth through it, sure, but it was still there. “I suppose not,” he said.

By now the sun had sunk behind the mountains across the river, and the blue shadow of night overtook the room. Crickets struck up their nightly chorus over the constant, soft roar of the waterfalls. Charlotte’s breathing was soft and regular; Arthur could feel her limbs relaxing, bit by bit with the occasional twitch, as she drifted into sleep. He kissed the top of her head, then suppressed a cough, not wanting to wake her; his eyes watered from the effort.

His thoughts turned to Mary as he wiped his eyes, to her letter and the ring she’d returned. He’d missed his chance with her - and his second chance, and likely a third chance he didn’t even realize he’d had. Was it possible for things to turn out differently with Charlotte? Dutch was always saying _we just need a bit more money_ , and that’s what Arthur had told Mary in Saint Denis \- well, he _had_ money now, almost by accident. He’d never had expensive tastes, and so his cuts of every job kept piling up; it wasn’t until he finally counted it all out a little while ago that he realized what he was sitting on, even without the money from the Blackwater job. Probably more than he could spend in what was left of his lifetime.

Why not just stay here, with Charlotte? Like he’d told her when they first met, Willard’s Rest was a good place to settle - secluded, with plentiful game and a good source of fresh water. To hell with Dutch and Micah and their “plans” that just wound up getting people killed for no good reason, sometimes not even for a bad reason - they were getting people killed for no damn reason at all.

But, of course, that was exactly why Arthur couldn’t leave, and he knew it as soon as the thought crossed his mind. Tilly, Mary Beth, Pearson, Abigail, little Jack - hell, even that dumbass John… Arthur couldn’t let Dutch and Micah’s insanity get any of them killed. The gang was approaching a precipice, seemed like; he wasn’t sure exactly when they would tip over the edge, but it would be soon, and he had to be around to ensure at least a few people didn’t get dragged over.

_ Afterwards, _ he told himself,  _ after  _ _ it _ _ happens… whatever it is… if you’re still walking, you can come back here. See if she’ll take you. _ It was a slim promise, he knew. But it was a comforting one nonetheless, and Arthur cradled it in his mind as he slid into a sleep filled with dreams of open skies and deer-filled vales.

The next morning, Arthur awoke to find himself alone in the bed. Thin yellow light streamed through the east window, casting a slanted square over his legs. Through the closed door, he heard the squeak of metal hinges as Charlotte opened the door to her stove and fed it more wood. He propped himself up on his elbows and felt a strange, damp chill on his back. He twisted to examine the bed, then sat up suddenly. “Shit!” He’d sweat so much during the night that he’d left an Arthur-shaped wet spot on the mattress. Which meant that Charlotte had woken up to a faceful of his sweat, too. “... _ Shit. _ ” He rubbed his face with his hands and then raked his fingers through his clammy brown hair.

There was a light knock at the door. “Arthur? If you’re up, I have coffee for you.”

“Sure - be right out.” Arthur sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, examining the pattern on the wallpaper as he gathered his thoughts and his strength. Putting his clothes on over his perspiration-soaked union suit was exceedingly unpleasant, but it wasn’t like he had much choice; he tried to ignore the gap in the waistband of his trousers that had grown in recent months. Finally, he put on his hat to hide what he was sure was an awful case of bed head and joined Charlotte in the main room.

She had opened the rear door to let out the heat of the stove, and to take advantage of the morning light to do some mending. Looking up, she smiled at Arthur’s approach and stood, setting the blue shirt she was repairing on the seat of her chair. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“That was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time,” Arthur said; it was the truth. He searched Charlotte’s expression for any sign of disgust or embarrassment. There was none - though it seemed her cheeks were a bit flushed, as if she had recently scrubbed her face.

“I’m glad to hear it - coffee?”

“Please.” Arthur fished his tin cup from his satchel and Charlotte poured him a generous helping from her percolator. As he sat at the table and gingerly sipped the hot liquid, she ladled two bowls full of a yellowish-white porridge and set one in front of him. He appraised the mystery dish skeptically. It was thick, with chunks of meat suspended within it. “...What is this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Cerealine,” Charlotte said. “It’s the height of scientific breakfast foods. It’s supposed to be easier to digest - better for your health. More importantly for my purposes, it’s easy to store and easy to cook.”

“That so?” Arthur swirled his spoon in the Ceraline goop and sniffed it; it was mostly odorless save for a whiff of malt, not unlike beer.

“I like to add a bit of salt pork, for flavor. Though I’m sure the Kelloggs would throw a fit if they knew.” 

Arthur once again wasn’t sure if he was supposed to know whom Charlotte was referring to, and was too embarrassed to ask. “Your secret is safe with me.” He finally worked up the courage to try the Ceraline - it was, unsurprisingly, bland, save for the brief bursts of salt-and-fat from the bits of pork. But Charlotte was right: it did go down easy, and Arthur was able to convince himself to eat his entire serving. He noticed a gleam of triumph - and relief - in her eyes as he finished.

As Arthur drank the rest of his coffee, which had by now cooled to a gulp-able temperature, Charlotte said, “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.  _ Mi casa es tu casa _ , as they say in Mexico. Everything I own is yours.”

Sighing, Arthur set down his now-empty cup. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a fierce coughing fit that doubled him over for several seconds. Again he tasted that bitter, salty substance in the back of his throat, which he forced himself to swallow back down. “That is… very generous of you, Charlotte,” he wheezed. “It’s a greater kindness than I deserve.”

“I’d have to disagree. You saved my life.” 

“I suppose so.” Arthur silently debated just how much to tell her. “But… there are other people I still need to look out for. I’m responsible for their safety, as much as I can be.”

The muscles in Charlotte’s jaw worked as she digested what Arthur had just said. Eventually, she nodded, her mouth in a tight line. “I understand.”

“I would like to visit again. Once I know everyone’s safe.”

“I’d like that. Very much.” Charlotte reached out her hand; Arthur placed his atop hers. The two locked eyes and exchanged bittersweet smiles.

Standing, Arthur put away his cup and touched the brim of his hat in salute. “Thank you, Charlotte. And I’m sorry.”

“You keep apologizing unnecessarily.” Charlotte stood and rounded the table; she brushed past Arthur and opened the front door. In the grassy yard, Coronado snorted and perked his ears in anticipation of his master’s return. “I’ll be fine by myself, thanks to you. I’ll be reminded of you every time I skin a rabbit.”

“I’m not sure if that’s the kind of thing a fella wants to be remembered for.” Arthur slipped past Charlotte out the door, taking back up his rifle as he did so; she followed as he crossed the yard to Coronado and helped him tack up.

“It’s a better legacy than most.”

“I suppose so.” Once Coronado was ready, Arthur paused, unsure of what would be a proper good-bye to say. 

Before he could settle on the right words, Charlotte stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on his cheek. “Take care of yourself, Arthur.”

He knew he couldn’t make that promise. “Take care of yourself, Charlotte.” Then he swung into his saddle and, with a soft word to his horse, rode south along the river, not once allowing himself to look back.


End file.
